Revelations
by Godstiel
Summary: "I was never what you wanted, was I?" Dean, thrust into the post-apocalyptic world of two thousand and fourteen, stumbles across an old friend and learns of the effect he has had on him since they met.


**A/N:** So I was listening to the commentary of 5x04, _The End_, and Ben Edlund apparently had a scene where Dean found Castiel in the corner of Bobby's house killing a bug and resurrecting it over and over again - but they deleted it because it was too grim. This is my version of that scene, had it not been deleted! There is heavy Destiel and a lot of swearing and slight sexual insinuations, but nothing smutty or anything. Rate, review and enjoy!

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><p>"Bobby? Bobby, I'm comin' in!"<p>

With much trepidation, the man steps over the threashold of the house. A vociferous silence meets him and it disconcerts him. There's no cock of a defensive gun, no Bobby shouting, _are you trying to kill me, idjit_? Just a loud silence that's far more frightening than any reply he could have received. Now that he looks closer, padding further into the house silently, he catches sight of the thick layer of dust that coats the walls. Bobby Singer was notoriously lacking in house-keeping skills when he was alive, but Dean's stomach sinks at the sight of this - it's obvious that no-one has lived here in an extensively long time. His breath catches in his throat and he closes his eyes and steadies himself, wishing desperately that he was back in two thousand and nine. The year where Bobby was very much alive and kicking, where the world hadn't been converted into a wasteland by the Devil. Vomit bubbles in his stomach and threatens to throw up the beer he drank the previous night - or rather, five years ago - but he forces it down and pushes onwards, because he has no idea where his brother is and this house could hold his only clue.

He rounds the corner and stops short. Bobby's wheelchair comes into plain view - over-turned and with bullet holes pierced violently through the material. His heart is in his throat as he approaches it, expression hard as he crouches beside it and turns it upright. Bobby's body is nowhere to be found, but he assumes the worst from the sickening bloodstains. He supposes that the future Dean Winchester, or perhaps Sam, took care of the body. His eyes close briefly as he stands back up, giving the wheelchair an affectionate and longing pat before he looks around.

"Where is everyone, Bobby?" he murmurs desperately.

He approaches the desk and begins to rifle through the doors, looking for a clue as to the whereabouts of his friends. For twenty minutes, he searches through various papers without success, but he catches snippets of what's happening in the world - newspaper articles and notes about the viciously spreading virius, and he despairs further and further. "Zachariah, you dick," he mutters under his breath, having no doubt that the angel will hear this abusive prayer - but there's no response. Just a silence, stretching through the house. Then again, what else did he expect?

Eventually, when Dean's about to give up and search elsewhere, he comes across a photo in the bottom drawer, buried. He's in it. He's holding a gun and staring at the camera with eyes that are so expressionless that they unnerve the current version of him - or the past version, _whatever,_ he thinks without much care for the technicalities. Bobby's next to him in the wheelchair, and he has a similar grim look. "We're a pair of miserable bastards, Bobby," he sighs, turning it over. The date is from four years ago and his heart clenches - God fucking knows how long Bobby's been dead. "Oh man. This is way above my paygrade," he comments. "So this is what happens when the world goes to shit, eh?" He's talking to himself because it's better than the silence. He wants to leave the house, hear the roar of the car that he's hot-wired rather than this - but he's got nowhere to go.

It's then that he hears it.

A distinct noise. Like someone dropping something, feet below him - and it's coming from the panic room. Which means that the door must be open, considering it's sound-proofed. Dean's on the alert immediately. He had no weapons on him, and instinct screams at him to leave, but there's a hope that it's someone familiar, a welcome face - even though it's more than likely someone infected with the Croatoan virus. Although they're not known for sitting complacently in silence, as this person has obviously been doing for the full time Dean has been in the house, perhaps unaware of his presence.

Recklessness wins over safety, as it always does in the heart of Dean Winchester.

He edges towards the stairs that descend down into the panic room. When he reaches the door, there's a distinct sound now - a dark murmuring. It reassures him that it's not a Croatoan-infected zombie, but it sounds... Unfriendly. Cold. And there's no reply, which assures Dean that the person down there is clearly talking to himself - cell phones receive no signal in the panic room, and he doubts that they work in this climate anyway. He rubs at the back of his neck, considering backing off or calling down - but his feet edge down the stairs without question.

He hates his nature sometimes.

He reaches the door and tries to peer inside, hesitantly, edging around the wall - but whoever it is makes no move to attack him. They're at the far end of the room, head bowed and murmuring to something cupped in their hands. It's a man, he can see that from here. A man with his knees drawn up to his chest and a messy, unclean head of dark hair falling around what looks like a hollowed out face. His clothes are ill-fitting, ripped and look as if they haven't been washed in days - and Dean hasn't failed to notice the syringe next to him, which is probably what he heard clattering to the floor. Anger floods through him. So this is a drug-using prick using Bobby's house as a shelter, is it?

He has no fucking right and despite the weapons surrounding the other man, Dean has stormed in before he can stop himself.

The man looks up in vague surprise and Dean stops short.

It's Cas.

But it's _not_ Cas. The blue eyes are deadened and sunken, and his face is yellow and gaunt. He looks so skinny, as if he hasn't eaten - but angels don't need to eat and they don't lose weight, right? He looks in desperate need of a shower and even from here, Dean can smell a tell-tale waft of vodka - and as for the needle beside him...

Cas - or whoever this is - doesn't even look surprised to see him. He returns to playing with whatever is in hands, which Dean can now see, is a cockroach. It stops moving and then is revived, over and over in the space of a few seconds before Dean manages a,

"_Cas?"_

Cas drags his eyes from the cockroach again to squint at Dean. He's drunk - it's obvious. Or on something. Probably both. "Shoulda known you'd follow me," he tells Dean gruffly, clearly irritated. His voice isn't Castiel the angel, the powerful voice that Dean has come to know - it's colloquial, slang, _human_. "Nosy bastard," he adds, and Dean realises it's only the second time he's ever heard Cas swear. But he says it now as if it's a common occurrence before he unsteadily gets to his feet, dropping the cockroach and then standing on it mercilessly so it crunches grotesquely under his thick black boot.

Bizarrely, all Dean can register is that it's odd seeing him without the trademark coat.

"Cas - what -" He manages, mind absolutely blown.

"I leave camp for a fucking hour and you need to follow me here?" Cas looks genuinely angry - but it's human anger, not the angelic rage that Dean has become used to. "I'm a big boy, Dean. I've been alive centuries, so stop treating me like a rebellious kid, alright? You're -" But as he stumbles closer, he stops abruptly and stares hard.

"You're not Dean."

It's a simple statement. Dean, having been gawping uselessly, snaps his mouth shut and then speaks indignantly.

"Yeah, I am, actually," he snarls.

"No, I mean -" Cas - or this drugged up idiot who looks like him - waves a hand impatiently. "You're not now Dean. You're not two thousand and fourteen Dean. You're not -" He frowns and stops. "What year are you from?" he demands.

"Two thousand and nine," Dean replies, snapping slightly as he walks past the man to crouch down and examine the squashed cockroach and the needle. He winces and Cas laughs roughly before clearing his throat.

"Then how are you here?"

Dean stands up and turns around slowly. "Zachariah."

"Oh." Cas nods. "Right. Trying to make you see how bad it gets, say yes to Michael, the usual shit? This is a new tactic, even for him... Interesting..."

"Yeah, that's one word for it," Dean snaps in reply. He pauses and his throat tightens - he asks the inevitable. "What happened to Bobby?"

"Shot." Cas says it without much sensitively. "Demons. Lucifer's little buddies." A distasteful look flashes across his face. "Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly apologetic, and Dean flares up in anger once more.

"Yeah, you sound it."

"It happened three and a half years ago and we've had bigger worries since," Cas explains without much care.

"Right. Well, frankly, I don't care about your worries. Get your angel mojo going and zap me back to my page on the calendar," Dean demands. He doesn't like this Castiel. He doesn't like this world where Bobby is dead and Sam may be too - and he's too afraid to ask. He wants to be back in a world where Cas is still _Castiel_ and Bobby's still calling him an _idjit_ and in a world where there's still _hope_. But Cas seems to find this funny - hilarious, in fact. He snorts with wry laughter. "What?" Dean asks.

"Not possible," Cas replies, a distinctly bitter look flashing across his face.

"What do you mean, _not possible_?"

"Can't zap you back. You're relying on Zach, buddy."

The word _buddy_ and the sarcasm dripping from his voice sounds all wrong on Cas.

"Why?" he demands. "All that vodka fucked you up? I can smell it off you," he adds at Cas's questioning look. The angel - if he is still that - smiles.

"No. The vodka helps me, it doesn't hinder me," he replies. He bends down and morosely scrapes the remains of the cockroach off of the floor, holding it flat in his palm. The cockroach pieces knit themselves back together and it scrabbles in the dirty hand - before there's a flash and it dies once more. Before Cas can cruelly resurrect it again, Dean knocks it out of his hand in anger.

"Forget your damn bug and sober up so you can help me! You're a freakin' mess, Cas!" Dean snarls. Cas's eyes flash with bitter anger that Dean has never seen in him before.

"You think a lack of sobriety's why I can't _zap you back_?"

And then he's tugging off his jacket, dropping it on the floor. He fiddles shakily with the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one at a time.

"Are you stripping for me?" Dean asks, trying to make a joke because he doesn't like the dark look on his old friend's face. Cas shoots him a dirtier look that's even more unnerving as he finishes with the buttons, drops the shirt to the floor and silently turns around. Dean has to suppress a flinch.

His back is scarred beyond belief. Dried blood cakes it from wounds which seem to have re-opened recently - or which continuously re-open. The pink and red scarring, often green in places where it looks infected, criss-crosses all over the skin and Dean can't help but be shocked that the man isn't dead. It's one of the most awful sights he's ever seen - and in his life as a hunter, the eldest Winchester has seen a lot. He looks away and Cas looks grimly satisfied as he reaches down for his shirt and begins to heave it back on.

"What the hell happened?" Dean asks gruffly.

"My wings got ripped out."

He says it completely matter-of-factly.

"Why?" Dean hedges.

"The other angels left. I dunno what happened -" Cas's voice trembles slightly, but he clearly hopes that Dean hasn't noticed, because he resolutely pushes on, "- But they left and my mojo just sorta... Vanished. Then my wings got pulled away. I think they didn't wanna leave me as an angel on the Earth, y'know? Too much power to help you guys, to stop the apocalypse." He shrugs. "But I came down here to think - I do that a lot, although I hope you don't remember that in five years, 'cause you dunno where I go, I like peace - and then I found I could bring that cockroach back. And do other stupid things. I suppose that's cause Zachariah's around, I'm tapping into some of his energy, you know?"

Dean doesn't know, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Great. I'm stuck here."

Cas closes his eyes.

"What?" Dean snaps.

"I just forgot," Cas sighs. "Your problems always come first."

Dean frowns at that, feeling a stab of guilt in his stomach. Did he let the ex-angel get like this, in two thousand and fourteen? Or was this Cas just looking for someone to blame?

"Don't pull the guilt trip on me, I haven't done anything yet," he insists gruffly.

Cas smiles bitterly. "Yeah, you have. You changed me in the first place. I'd still be a good little soldier if it wasn't for you."

"I didn't -"

"It wasn't a complaint, Dean. Well. Not that last sentence anyway."

Dean bites down on his lip so harshly he almost draws blood. "Fuck, Cas, it's not good seeing you like this."

Cas's smile is a little more genuine, and the strangeness of it makes Dean cock an eyebrow inquisitively.

"I like past you a bit more," he replies.

"I'm different here?" Dean questions.

"You're more... focused."

"On what?"

"Beating the Devil." Cas shrugs. "You don't have time for much else, but I try not to blame you." He considers this. "Well, I don't try that hard, actually."

Dean doesn't fail to hear the bitterness in his voice. It seems to be there constantly. For however Dean is now, for the scarring on his back, for his rebellion from the angels - and Dean doesn't over-look the fact that Cas is blaming him for all of it.

"Sorry." It's a rare word to leave Dean's mouth.

"That's the first time you've ever said that to me."

Cas takes a step forward and one of his hands rises slowly to Dean's face, unclean but soft as it presses against the skin there. Dean gives him a look that clearly asks what he's doing, indignant even, but he doesn't step back. Cas smiles ruefully, but he doesn't withdraw his hand - and with a stab in his stomach, Dean realises that this is familiar to Cas, that this kind of dynamic between them, this contact, is not new to him. It's not foreign.

_Fuck._

Cas must notice the look on Dean's face because he laughs softly and eventually brings his hand away, although he's still standing close. "I forget you're still denying it now," he comments.

"Denying what?"

Cas only smirks and the next stab in Dean's stomach is nearly painful.

"You're sick, Cas. Seriously deluded. I want the old you back," he snarls like a child.

"Yeah, I wanted the old you back too. But the old you just wants the old me. And round and round we go." He laughs, and it's almost hysterical this time. Every time Cas smiles or laughs, there's little warmth in it. Dean notices that now. "I was never what you wanted, was I, Dean?"

Dean is taken aback. "What -"

"You wanted me to change. You hated how I was, how I had been for milennia," Cas says bluntly, and it's without anger - just resignation and acceptance and somehow, that's worse. "So I changed, I tried to be more human, and I went from socially awkward to - this. There was always something you would alter or improve. I needed someone to move my loyalties to, and that was you - but you were never happy."

Dean feels uncharacteristically ashamed of himself. That self-hatred that he's always had for himself rises to the surface and bubbles away and he stares into those dull blue eyes that used to be so bright and blames himself. He always blames himself, of course, but this time he feels justified.

"Cas, I know you resent the hell outta me - or future you does, or whoever - but I am fucking sorry if what happened to you is because of me."

The sincerity of his voice is unmistakable and Cas makes an inhuman guttural noise and then does something that Dean did not expect - but perhaps should have.

He grabs the front of Dean's jacket, fingers curling around the leather and slams his back against the wall so hard that the breath is knocked out of the hunter. Lips collide with his and move with more experience than he would ever have expected Cas to gain and they move against his with such personal expertise, with such knowledge of what Dean _likes_, that Dean instantly knows where - or rather, who - Cas learned this from. Him. Dean makes a noise, and he's not sure if it's of assent or protest, because Cas has him pinned so firmly that he can barely move - but when there's a twitching under the material of his trousers, he pushes him violently off and Cas stumbles backwards. The taste of alcohol lingers in Dean's mouth.

"Is this what we _do_?"

"No need to sound so appalled," Cas murmurs. "Yeah. This is what we _do_, Dean." He looks down. "But you're not the same now. You're more up for this, but it's because you've got nothing else." He laughs, but to Dean's horror, there's something glistening in the ex-angel's eyes. "It's not because you want me - it's because I'm your last option these days." He looks away. "I fucking hate you these days. I miss _past you_, but _past you_ never wanted me, did you? So I take what I can get. I take it from a man who's just a shell of who you once were."

It barely makes sense. The whole thing is wrong. Dean, without another word, turns and storms through the door, his conflicting emotions making his heart a battleground. He feels sick as Castiel's hysterical, choking laughter echoes off the walls and follows him through the house until he slams the front door closed behind him.


End file.
